


Humble Pie

by kawree



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly Gen, Pining, but with y e a r n i n g, disaster bisexuals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27613103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawree/pseuds/kawree
Summary: When he finds Geralt barely clinging to life in the aftermath of an unexpected monster attack, Jaskier knows of only one way to make sure the witcher lives: threaten to write a ballad about how lame his death was if he doesn't.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 102





	Humble Pie

Jaskier was many things. He was Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove; he was an educated poet of some renown, who had attained a professorship; he was a traveling bard who had managed to gain a rather widespread following, thanks to his lyrical genius and musical prowess; and certainly he was an _unparalleled_ lover. (Jaskier was, naturally, also very humble, as _everyone_ knows a good bard always unfailingly is.)

One thing Jaskier was _not_ , however, was someone who gave up on people. The Countess de Stael had left him several times, and he'd always returned to her side, into her willing arms. ... Granted, he'd been told that this tendency to bear on and hold fast to people who had all but told him to sod off was, and he would quote, "annoying", or "pathetic", which he felt was not only _utterly_ uncalled for, but downright rude. That surely showed how highly _they_ regarded the ties that bind! Once someone was a part of your life, that was permanent! Even if they _did_ tell you to sod off! Why, the mere act of meeting and getting to know someone enduringly bound them to you--should you part ways, there would always and forever remain a handprint on your soul left in their wake.

At least that was what Jaskier kept telling himself. This particular handprint was rather more the result of an undignified, if metaphorical, slap in the face, but a handprint nonetheless.

With a heavy sigh, Jaskier jabbed at the fire in the circle of stones, his lute across his lap and his chin in his palm as he watched the flames dance to the tune of his empty stomach. 

" _'If life could give me one blessing,'_ " he grumbled in a mock gravelly voice, " _'it would be to take **you** off my hands!'"_

He stabbed at the fire again, scowling now. Who did Geralt think he _was_? Why, if it hadn't been for him, he would still be known as The Butcher of Blaviken, or who _knew_ what other far more unsavory titles he could have racked up? Jaskier had single-handedly turned the tide of Geralt's reputation, and _this_ was the thanks he got? _Dismissed_? It wasn't _his_ fault Geralt had a knack for getting himself into problematic situations!

... Okay, the Child Surprise had _kind_ of been his fault, maybe, but he hadn't _made_ Geralt choose the Law of Surprise. And... okay, _maybe_ the thing with the djinn had kind of been his fault, too, but Geralt had been _asking_ for it, with that fillingless pie remark. Besides, Jaskier had definitely pre-paid that minor inconvenience, by, you know, _nearly dying_ , and whose fault had _that_ part been?

> _'He could die.' Chireadan's voice had been far too calm for this situation.  
>  'Fuck, Geralt--' he had croaked through a mouthful of blood, reaching for him, and Geralt's hands had closed securely around his shoulders. He recalled thinking idly that despite their roughness, Geralt's hands were quite warm.  
>  'Uh... yeah, we won't let that happen,' the witcher had grunted, clapping him gently on the back._

  
It had been so nice, even through the pain, to think that maybe, just maybe, someone would have sincerely missed him if he were gone. Certainly his _family_ had never made any efforts to stay in contact, and his exceedingly long list of willing bedmates... well, the more he thought about it, the more it seemed _he_ was the one who was overwilling. But Geralt! Geralt of Rivia, the infamous witcher, Geralt had dropped _everything_ and risked it all to save him! Surely that stood for _something_ , didn't it? Surely that meant that their relationship could be defined as something beyond the bounds of the average friendship? Something greater than naught but partners in crime?

Geralt had been... his _muse_ , in so many ways! Without the witcher's grand adventures to write about now, all Jaskier seemed able to come up with were sad ballads about how hungry he was and how much he hated dirt and how much of it was _on_ him at any given moment. How could his muse have abandoned him so? Didn't Geralt _know_ what it meant for a bard to lose their inspiration? Didn't he _care_?

Jaskier rolled his eyes and sneered. So much for _that_. If Geralt _really_ cared about his well-being, he certainly wouldn't have sent him away to fend for himself, knowing full-well he would very likely starve within a week! ... Could one starve in a week's time? Jaskier's rumbling belly said yes, absolutely--it had only been four days and he would have killed someone for a decent meal.

Of course, if killing things wasn't an issue, he wouldn't be so hungry now in the first place, so this was rather circular logic, but he supposed it didn't matter.

Jaskier had begun to give serious consideration to attempting vegetarianism when the sound of hoofbeats met his ears. His fingers closed around the neck of his lute as a lance of panic shot through him. He could put up something of a fight if he really had to, but a mounted assailant already had the high ground, and he had no weapons. Before he could finish contemplating all of the ways he could be killed by an assassin on horseback (stabbed and speared, a mortal wound//his final verse, the minstrel crooned--!), Jaskier found himself met with an unexpectedly familiar face.

"Roach?" He tilted his head, one eye squinted suspiciously. "Roach, old girl, is that you?" Jaskier got to his feet, resting his lute against the log he'd been seated on. "No Geralt?" he asked, and Roach snorted sharply. "Well, yes, I'm very glad to see _you_ , of course," he assured her, "however your apparent lack of passenger is a bit concerning." He reached up as if to stroke the velvet of her muzzle, then paused, withdrew his hand.

_'Don't touch Roach!'_

Geralt's every word still rang in his head and struck through his heart, echoing in the emptiness left by the witcher's absence, and Jaskier let his arm fall to his side.

"Is this a test?" he asked quietly, glancing at Roach, who pawed at the ground with her front hooves somewhat impatiently. "All right, all right, you needn't get huffy," he said then, craning his neck to look around. 

It was true that the apparent lack of Geralt was quite suspicious, as Geralt never seemed to go anywhere without his beloved steed, or at least without securing her safe lodging. This _had_ to be a test.

"I'm not touching Roach!" Jaskier called, certain the witcher was simply hiding in the nearby foliage, waiting to leap out and shout at him some more for not even listening to his very reasonable demands. "I _remember_ ," he said. "I do listen, you know? Here, look here!" He lifted both hands and waved them on either side of Roach's head. "Oooh, look at me, how I'm _not touching her_ ," he taunted. "Are you happy now? You can stop hiding, I've passed your little test, Geralt!"

Silence. 

"... Geralt?"

Jaskier let his arms drop again, glowering. Well, if Geralt _wasn't_ hiding in the foliage, then he'd just made a total ass of himself for no reason. However, he had done so with only a horse as his audience, so perhaps ultimately there was no harm done. _However_ however, if Geralt _wasn't_ hiding in the foliage... then where was he, and why was Roach here without him?

"Bit of a riddle, isn't it?" Jaskier asked Roach, who snorted impatiently again, pawing at the earth with one hoof. Jaskier hummed softly to himself, a trio of notes, a nod of his head. "Alone in the eve, toward sunset's reprieve//noble steed, one alone, doth your master take leave...?" He grunted, grimaced. Garbage. "Everything's shit without him, isn't it, Roach?" he lamented softly, then shook a finger at the horse's nose. " _Don't_ you dare tell him I said that, either."

This _did_ seem to be going on for a rather long time, to be a test or a joke, though. Geralt was not especially known for his patience with frivolous undertakings, and had no sense of humor he seemed aware of, and thus Jaskier was forced to believe that something _else_ was afoot here: something he did not like one bit.

"Has something happened?" he asked, and Roach whinnied brightly, tossing her head, which Jaskier took as some manner of affirmation. "Then... have you come to _fetch_ me, is that it?" 

Had Geralt _sent_ her for him? No, that seemed unlikely; even when Geralt wasn't being hostile, it was always very clear that he didn't _ask_ for help, at least not for his own sake. Especially after having sent him _away_ , Jaskier couldn't really imagine Geralt would have sent Roach to look for him, of all people. So had she come on her own, then, knowing that despite his apparent helplessness and lack of combat capability, he was the one person that Geralt would _trust_ while in a compromised state?

"Must the heavens toy with me so?" he sighed, moving to grab his lute and smothering the campfire with dirt. "All right, I suppose I'll never know what's happened unless I go with you, right?" he asked. Roach nickered, and Jaskier could almost _swear_ it had sounded like ' _finally!'_ , and she stomped her feet in place again. "Don't suppose you could be bothered to give me a lift, then?" he asked, gesturing downward. "I still haven't really got the proper footwear for a long journey, and since you can't _tell_ me how far we have to go, perhaps we could just bypass the line of questioning and--"

Roach bared her teeth and whinnied shrilly, and Jaskier jolted, slinging the lute onto his back and shouldering his little bag of provisions.

"All _right_ , okay, fine, I'm _coming_ ," he said, grabbing the edge of her saddle and hauling himself up onto her back. "As impatient as your master, aren't we? Very unladylike."

With that, he took up the reins and gently nudged her sides with his heels to urge her forward.

"I sure hope you know where you're going," he said, ducking his head low as she broke into a hurried canter and dashed into the shadows of the darkened woods off the road.

Whatever Geralt had gotten himself into, the one thing Jaskier could be certain of was that this time? It _wasn't_ his fault.

* * *

By the time they reached their destination, Jaskier was _almost_ done marveling at how in the world Roach had even _found_ him. It had been nearly an hour's ride to find Geralt, so how Roach knew how to find her way back, let alone how she'd located him in the first place, was a mystery to him.

"Quite the extraordinary steed, aren't we?" he asked softly, patting the side of her neck as he slid down from her back to investigate the... Oh, Gods, was that really Geralt under all that blood? 

Jaskier practically flung his bag and lute to the side and dropped to his knees beside the mangled mess of a figure lying prone in the dirt, the pale light of a half-full moon illuminating the earth as faintly purple where a pool of blood had seeped into the soil around him. The breath stolen from his lungs, Jaskier reached out, then hesitated, his hand hovering just centimeters above the matted, bloody tangle of Geralt's hair.

_'If life could give me one blessing...'_

Closing his hand into a fist, Jaskier felt something sting sharply behind his breastbone. He knew he could be terribly annoying. He knew his garrulous nature could be obnoxious, and that his penchant for poetics was often tiresome, especially for the stern, silent type like Geralt. He _knew_ they were a rather odd pair to be friendly at all, but that hadn't deterred him. He sincerely _liked_ Geralt, tetchy and taciturn though he was, and had only wished to help him all along. Geralt's sniping had certainly been a bit sharp, it was true, but he had always stopped just short of actually drawing blood, as it were, until...

_'...it would be to take **you** off my hands!'_

Okay, that had really hurt, actually. Jaskier considered himself a very tolerant person who was rather insufferably unsinkable, but he still had feelings! And Geralt had actually managed to wound them with his words that day, and...!

A somewhat inhuman grunt that may or may not have been profane emanated from the still figure of the witcher, and Jaskier's tetchy musings were instantly forgotten.

"G-Geralt?" he gasped, and this time his hand found its mark, fingers dusting gently over the tangled hair alongside Geralt's face, brushing it out of his eyes. "Good _gods_ , Geralt, what the fuck _happened_?"

There was a brief silence before Geralt's visible eye cracked open, gleaming gold in the pale overhead light, and then instantly rolled back into its socket.

" _Fuck_ ," he groaned. "I'm dead. I'm dead and this is hell."

"Now that is just _rude_ ," Jaskier harrumphed, but a small part of him was relieved. If Geralt was okay enough to be mean, he probably wasn't going to die. "I'll have you know Roach came _all the way_ to find me and bring me back here because she was _worried_ about you!"

"Roach, you're fired."

"You can't just _fire_ her," Jaskier insisted, and then glanced at Roach for affirmation. "Can he?"

Roach didn't seem interested in weighing in, and was instead munching on some nearby grass that was unspoilt by blood, apparently no longer concerned with Geralt's current predicament. Jaskier wasn't certain if this was reassuring, or just putting _way_ too much faith in _him_ as a potential savior of witchers.

Geralt let out another groan of pain, shifting to try and get his arms under him, and Jaskier recoiled quickly, waving his hands.

"Wait-- _wait_!" he said, and let out a squeak of alarm when Geralt swore colorfully and collapsed back to the earth, his left arm useless at his side and bent at a rather grotesque angle no bone was meant to go. It was too dark to see if the blood pooled beneath him had increased in volume from his efforts, but Jaskier was very sure he was _never_ going to get the stains out of the knees of his trousers. Funnily enough, he didn't really care. "Geralt, what. happened?" he asked again, gripping the bigger man's shoulder and slowly, carefully attempting to help him roll over so his face wasn't in the mud. "You look as though you've--oh. Well. There, see? You _have_ gone and gotten your... guts... all..." 

He grimaced as the moonlight gleamed over the blood smeared across Geralt's torso, revealing a deep gash across his chest, only barely missing where Jaskier assumed he kept most of his vital organs. Witchers had been human once, right? They still had, like... normal organs in the usual places, right? Well, it didn't matter; so far as Jaskier could tell, Geralt hadn't been _relieved_ of any of his organs, and that was what mattered.

"Pijavica," Geralt snarled through teeth grit in pain.

"I'm sorry, what? Peeya- _what_?"

" _Pijavica._ "

"Geralt, you repeating yourself when I have no idea what you're saying is not helpful."

Geralt made a clumsy grab for his bag with his unbroken arm, but it was too far for him to reach. Jaskier wordlessly rose to his feet and picked up the bag, returning to Geralt's side.

"What do you need?" he asked, audibly frustrated, and Geralt just snatched the bag from his hands. Jaskier huffed and folded his arms. "I am _trying_ to help--"

"I don't _need_ your help!" Geralt barked, pulling a vial from the bag and bringing it to his mouth to pull the cork out with his teeth. He tried to sit up a bit to get a better look at the wound across his abdomen, but seemed unable to do so, and Jaskier snapped one hand out and grabbed the vial from Geralt's shaking fingers.

"You _do_ ," he insisted. "Now where do I apply this tincture of... uh..." He sniffed the mouth of the bottle and then coughed harshly. "E _gads_ , Geralt, what _is_ this? Is it _sterile_? This smells like it'd burn the warts off my great aunt's--"

"Pour it over the _wound_ , you insipient ass!"

Jaskier glowered at him. "You don't have to _shout_ ," he said, but dutifully extended his hand and carefully drizzled the foul-smelling elixir across the gash in Geralt's torso. It bubbled and hissed like cold water against hot steel, and Geralt's whole body tensed, the veins in his neck bulging as he grit his teeth so hard Jaskier could practically hear them grinding. "Should I sto--"

" _Finish it!_ " Geralt spat.

Startled, Jaskier just upended the rest of the bottle into the wound, sending a puff of--gods, was that _smoke_? What in hell _was_ this stuff? Witcher poultices and unearthly _nonsense_ \--what he _needed_ was a damn _doctor_.

"Geralt, this is ridiculous, I'm not just going to sit here and torture you with your silly holistic witcher hogwash," he said, shaking his head as he stashed the little vial back in the bag. "There's a town ten minutes' ride from here, I'll take you to--Geralt?"

This time, Jaskier did not hesitate as he reached out and pressed two fingers against Geralt's neck. _Fuck, I killed him,_ he thought frantically. _What was in that vial? A suicide drug? Would he really have--?_

He exhaled the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding when a faint, slow pressure met his fingertips. Ah, right, witchers and their stupid slow heartbeats. Well, he wasn't _dead_ at least, so he must have just passed out from the pain. It was funny... Jaskier knew that of course Geralt could _feel_ pain, even if he supposedly felt no emotions, but there was just something so superhuman about him most of the time, it was easy to forget. Even if he didn't consider himself human, he was built from the same pieces, molded from the same clay; Geralt may have been superhuman on the surface, but at his core, Jaskier was convinced he was as human--if not moreso--than anyone else.

Pulling his hand back he glanced at Roach, then glanced back at Geralt. The witcher outweighed him by _at least_ 30 or 40 kilos, of that he was certain--how the hell was he going to get him anywhere to recover? They certainly couldn't just stay _here_ ; a wound like that would get infected in a heartbeat! Like a _regular_ speed one!

"Roach? Dear, could I entreat your assistance?" he called, and to his surprise, the horse lifted her head, nickered quietly, and approached. He had always assumed that Roach was the brains of the duo, but now he was truly convinced. "Do you think you could, ah... Well..." He gestured vaguely at Geralt, and then lifted his hands to gesture at her before making a wordless sound of inquiry. He wasn't entirely certain what he had even really been asking, but it appeared that Roach had gotten the message, as she gingerly folded her legs beneath her to lower her body onto the ground. "Yes, _quite_ the extraordinary steed," he marveled, and as he grabbed Geralt beneath the arms to awkwardly drag him toward where Roach waited patiently, Jaskier made a mental note to locate some carrots or apples for her once this was all worked out.

* * *

It had taken the help of the inkeeper _and_ his daughter to get the unconscious witcher up the stairs to the rented room, and Jaskier was never _ever_ going to tell him that. Less because he felt ashamed at being unable to carry him alone (well the man weighed at _least_ 120 kilos with all his armor and such), and more because he had a feeling Geralt would vivisect him if he found out literally anyone else had laid eyes upon him in such a state. Emotions or not, Geralt had a fair amount of pride, and it didn't take long to figure out he _despised_ appearing vulnerable.

"In--yes, in the tub, if you would," Jaskier said, shoving the door to the bathroom open with one foot. "Gen-- _gently_ , please!"

The innkeeper gave Jaskier a long-suffering look and rather unceremoniously dumped Geralt into the tub, dusting his hands off on his trousers.

"S'an extra fee for cleanin' up bloodstains," he said gruffly.

Jaskier just dug into Geralt's bag and pulled the coinpurse out, shoving it at the innkeeper. "Just... take it," he said with a shake of his head. He was sure he would get reamed for using Geralt's own coin for all of this, but what was he supposed to do? He barely had enough money to _eat_ , let alone rent a room! "There's plenty there to cover any cleaning costs, I'm sure," he said, "and for a spare set of clothes, as well, I'd say. If you would be so kind."

The innkeeper glanced at his daughter, then sighed heavily. "Ain't got much what'll fit 'is size," he said, "but surely we can find somethin'. Maybe for you, too."

"No sense sleeping in filthy clothes, there," the daughter said.

"Well, I sleep in the nude," Jaskier said with a rushed laugh, then waved a hand. "Never mind. Yes, sure, clothes for both of us, and maybe something to eat, would be perfect."

"Ninna here's a right good cook," the innkeeper said. "She can whip up somethin' what'll fix yer witcher right up."

Jaskier startled. "Ah... oh," he said. "You knew?"

The innkeeper nodded. "Aye, I know 'im. Recognize that white hair and surly face anywhere, even under all that blood. Right ornery bastard, this one," he said, gesturing at Geralt where he was resting in the tub in something of a heap, "but he saved this place from an infestation'a nasty critters someone'd smuggled in their bags across the borders some months ago." His face crinkled into something that might have been a smile beneath all the leathery layers of sun-damage. "I owe 'im this much, says I."

"Thank you," Jaskier said breathlessly. The innkeeper had seemed a gruff and surly man, but Geralt himself was a prime example of the cover belying the contents of the book. He watched them depart, then blew out a sigh and turned to Geralt, still unconscious in the tub. He wasn't sure how he was going to get him out of his clothes, let alone without getting annihilated for it later, but... "Nope, this has _got_ to go," he said, plucking at the torn leather around the wound in Geralt's chest. "Look at this, this is just... sepsis waiting to happen. No, no, no, absolutely not. Geralt, I am so sorry, but I have no choice but to disrobe you myself."

It took approximately twenty minutes, and Jaskier was nearly as filthy and bloody as Geralt by the time he pulled the last of the witcher's clothing free of his body, but he had somehow managed to do so without disturbing any of his larger wounds too much, which was the most important thing. Having Geralt bleed out in the tub was _not_ on the agenda. Swiping his hand across his brow and leaving a smear of blood and grime there, Jaskier then set to the task of getting Geralt cleaned up. Several bucketfuls of warm water later, the tub was half-filled with water the color of tar, but Geralt was about as clean as he was going to get. Jaskier drained the tub and rinsed the residual bathwater from Geralt's body, his eyes lingering on the massive gash across his torso. It was still slowly oozing blood, but not enough to be immediately panicked about, at least; it would definitely need stitching, though.

He dried off Geralt as well as he could with the man still unconscious in the tub, combing his fingers through the ice-white hair to get the last of the tangles out. He really did have such lovely hair. Jaskier wondered how he would look with it braided.

\--Wait, okay, what? No, not thinking about that. Especially not when... oh. Yes, Geralt was definitely still _very_ naked. He'd seen the witcher's mostly undressed form before, of course, but... not... quite like this. Ugh, but really, this was no time to let hormones intervene. _Yes_ Geralt was _very pretty_ and Jaskier could have stared at him for hours, but right now it was much more important to tend to his injuries.

Stripping off the filthy outer layers of his own clothing to prevent recontaminating any now-clean wounds, Jaskier managed to awkwardly wrangle Geralt out of the tub, in all his naked glory, and _somehow_ was able to clumsily drag him beneath the arms into the main part of the room. Resting on the bed were two piles of clean, folded clothing, and a small medical kit, and Jaskier told himself that he would have to start frequenting this inn should he be in this area again in the future.

Heaving Geralt's limp frame up onto the bed, Jaskier took a moment to slide a pair of trousers onto his legs, fastening the ties and then kneading his own brow for a moment. Yes, Geralt absolutely would have killed him on-sight had he woken up completely stark naked, so this was as much a method of preserving his own life as Geralt's dignity. He pulled open the medkit and found a roll of dressing cloth, as well as a few clean rags and several vials of herbs and something that smelled horrible, like vinegar and something alcoholic, and he had to assume was an antiseptic of some sort.

"All right, Geralt," Jaskier said, grabbing a pair of tongs and wadding up one of the clean cloths, "time to deal with this rather nasty cut you've acquired."

The wound was so huge... Jaskier hadn't truly appreciated the depth and length of the gash until he'd washed away the filth and gotten close enough to clean it. The edges were ragged, torn, the cut hadn't been clean at all. Claws, rather than a blade, he had to assume. As he dabbed at the edges with the rag and the antiseptic, he could see damaged muscle beneath the torn skin; the wound was _quite_ deep, such that it had definitely gone through all layers of skin at its deepest. Jaskier could only hope that none of the mud had gotten too deep into the injury to have been cleaned away by the bath. The last thing they needed was for Geralt to end up with some sort of internal infection. He wasn't even sure how Geralt's healing process worked, for that matter. He knew he healed much more quickly than the average human, but the method was a mystery to him.

Once he'd finished going over the whole thing with the antiseptic, he moved onto a few smaller wounds before setting the bloody rag aside and carefully laying his hands on either side of the largest wound. Gently, he pressed down a bit and drew the two sides of the gash together, to see how feasible a stitching job would be, and found that despite the width of the wound, he was able to pull it closed enough that he was satisfied he could work with it. What was more troubling was how cold and clammy Geralt's skin felt beneath his hands, and how ragged and uneven his breathing had grown. Jaskier didn't know how long Geralt had been lying there in the dirt bleeding before Roach had left to find him, but if it had taken her an hour to get to him, and an hour to get back, that already meant he'd potentially lost a dangerous amount of blood.

"You listen to me, Geralt... Geralt... what _is_ your last name, anyway?" Jaskier pursed his lips and reached for the medkit again, hoping there was a suturing needle of some sort, and some catgut or silk thread. "Do witchers _have_ last names? 'Of Rivia' obviously isn't a family name. Well, whatever, you listen to me, Geralt of Rivia Lastname Unknown," he said very sternly, "this room was bought with _your_ coin, under _your_ name. As such, it is _your_ room, and this is _your_ bed." He found a spool of heavy duty silk thread, and a curved needle made of bone, and quickly set to threading it. "I swear, Geralt," he said, cutting the thread against one of Geralt's swords, both of which rested at the foot of the bed, "if you die here, in this bed, I _will_ write The Ballad of Geralt, The Only Witcher to Die in his Bed. Er... well, that's a working title."

Grabbing the chair from against the wall, Jaskier pulled it up alongside the bed, sat down, and then decided it sat too low for this procedure. He removed the swords from the end of the bed, certain someone would lose a toe otherwise, and then climbed up onto the mattress alongside Geralt to sit tailor-style next to him. Dipping another scrap of cloth into the strong-smelling antiseptic, he wiped down the needle and ran the cloth along the cord, then leaned over to carefully begin the process of stitching the wound.

"Do you want that to be your legacy, Geralt?" he asked then, desperate to fill the silence with something more than Geralt's ragged breathing. "You've seen how popular my other songs about you have become, do you _want_ to be known as the first witcher in history to not be slain in battle? Because I'll _do_ it, you know I will."

The scolding continued as he worked, painstakingly making straight, even stitches across the wound. Jaskier was not a brawler by a long shot, but had spent most of his life traveling alone, and as such often found himself needing to dress his own wounds. A healer he certainly was not, but he was a passable field medic, and even if his skills weren't so varied as Chireadan's, nor so powerful as those of a mage, he was still going to do what he could. With no doctor, no healer, and no mage at his disposal, this was the best he could offer, and he only hoped it would be enough.

When the gash was closed to his satisfaction, Jaskier clipped the leftover thread and brushed the wound with the antiseptic again, then tucked everything back into the medical kit. He climbed down off the mattress and moved back to the other side of the bed, staring down at Geralt for a moment with a pronounced crinkle of worry between his eyebrows.

"I'm going to go wash up," he said, as if Geralt could hear him, "so you'd better still be alive when I get back."

He knew that he was likely about the least threatening thing Geralt could have imagined at any given moment, but he supposed the menacing tone would get his point across all the same.

* * *

Jaskier remained firmly rooted to the chair at Geralt's bedside after that, rotating between fastidiously scrutinizing the wound for signs of infection, strumming soft chords on his lute, and occasionally just running his fingertips over Geralt's skin. Well, to test for clamminess and temperature, of course! The first night had been the most harrowing, Geralt's uneven breathing and erratic pulse sending Jaskier into barely-moderated panic. He didn't know anything about witcher physiology! How was he supposed to help beyond what he'd already done? Geralt had survived things he couldn't even imagine experiencing, there was no way that this one simple wound would be the end of him!

Right?

The next day passed, and Jaskier had forced himself to nibble at the smoked meat and crusty bread the innkeeper had provided, but couldn't manage to find an appetite. Geralt didn't move, didn't make a sound, and gave no indication of whether or not he was improving, and frankly the whole thing had Jaskier _very_ anxious. But by about the 36 hour mark, he simply couldn't bear the exhaustion any longer. Arms folded on the mattress beside Geralt's ribs, Jaskier's head dropped and he slipped into dreamless sleep.

It was into the wee hours of the morning when Geralt finally made a noise, shifting slightly against the mattress. Jaskier snapped bolt upright, disoriented and groggy, and then his eyes focused on his comrade.

"G-Geralt?" he asked softly, leaning forward, and there was a pause, and then a sigh.

"Fuck."

Oh, good.

" _Geralt_ , do you have _any_ idea how _worried_ I've been?" Jaskier demanded, clutching at the sheet on the bed. "How _dare_ you just--just _be unconscious_ for that long!?"

"I assure you it was against my will," Geralt grunted, shifting his arms to try and prop himself up on his elbows.

"Ohh _no_ you don't," Jaskier said, holding one arm out and holding it directly above Geralt's chest, mere millimetres from touching his skin. "You are in _no_ condition to be up and about, young man."

"Jaskier, I am several decades older than you."

"And right now I couldn't give less of a single _shit_ ," Jaskier said sharply. "Your horse came to find _me_ to help you, and help you I _will_ , whether you like it or not."

"Well, I don't," Geralt said, but relented for the moment, dropped back to the mattress and planting one hand on his brow. "Where are we?" he asked, and Jaskier made a face.

"An inn," he said.

"And I suppose I've paid for said inn."

"You suppose correctly."

"Wonderful." Geralt groaned again, then craned his neck to try and get a look at the wound on his chest. "Nearly _die_ trying to take out someone's fucking pest, as usual, and I don't even get any coin out of it, in the end."

"What _were_ you trying to exterminate, anyway, that you wound up like this?" Jaskier asked, getting to his feet and fetching some water from the pitcher on the table. "I mean I've seen you bleed, certainly, but... never in quite such a volume."

"It was a pijavica," Geralt said, begrudgingly accepting the water when Jaskier offered him a scratched tin cup.

"Ah," Jaskier said, and then shook his head. "Yeah, I still have no idea what that word is."

"A drinker," Geralt clarified, sliding up the bed a little to prop himself upright just enough to gingerly swallow the water. 

"You're telling me some _drunkard_ did this to you?"

"A vampire, of sorts," Geralt said then, rolling his eyes and glowering at the cup. "When a man who has been incestuous with his mother dies, if he lived a truly wicked life, the body may return as a pijavica. They're very rare, most don't make it past the first stage of their development; they're almost entirely extinct."

"Not entirely enough," Jaskier said dryly. "I hope you at least successfully killed it."

"It's dead," Geralt assured him.

"It nearly took you with it, it seems," Jaskier said, reaching out as if to test the knitting of the edges of the wound, but he stopped himself and folded his hands in his lap again. "Your life certainly would be easier if people stopped fucking their family members, ey?" he asked, giving a forced chuckle, and then sighed. "Getting you here was no small task, I'll have you know."

"I didn't _ask_ for your help," Geralt snarled, baring his teeth.

Jaskier scowled at him. "You never _ask_ for _anyone's_ help," he retorted, "that's the entire _problem_."

"I told you," Geralt said, taking another sip of the water and then thrusting the cup back at Jaskier, "I need no one, and I want no one needing me."

"Well, _too fucking bad._ "

Jaskier didn't realize he had raised his voice until the sound of it echoed off the rafters above them as he jumped to his feet, quickly enough that the chair skidded away from him from the movement. His eyes bored into Geralt's harshly as he snatched the cup and slammed it down on the bedside table. Geralt stared back, looking a bit surprised at the outburst, and truly Jaskier was a bit surprised himself. He was generally quite mild-mannered and even-tempered, but if anybody could drive him to sincere anger, it seemed it was Geralt, and for the moment, since he had the witcher's attention, he was just going to lean into it.

" _Look_ , you," he said, pointing very sternly at him, "I know you have this whole practically immortal lone wolf thing going on, but the fact of the matter is, you are _important_ to people, okay? Not just in name, not just in occupation, but like as a _person_ , when you're capable of _acting_ like one."

Geralt said nothing, but lifted his eyebrows ever so slightly, and Jaskier took this as an invitation to go on.

"When you told me to fuck off, I _did_ ," he said. "I thought, maybe I really _am_ bad luck, if he's really only dealing with these sorts of problems when I tag along. So I did it--I fucked off, just like you told me to! And it _hurt_ and I was _sad_ about it, because I'm _fond_ of you, for some stupid reason, you great horse's ass, but who am I to inconvenience the great White Wolf, after all? Even if I'm at _least_ half the reason you even _have_ such a fancy impressive name."

Geralt still said nothing, but had shifted a bit further up the head of the bed so he could ease himself upright. He started to fold his arms over his chest, then thought better of it in light of the wound, and instead opted to just steeple his fingers together.

"I even _saw_ you a couple of times since you told me off," Jaskier continued, wagging his finger at him now. "At a bar here, down the road there, I _saw_ you, but I didn't say anything, didn't even _wave_ , because I was trying to respect your _boundaries_! But you didn't even have the decency to _acknowledge_ me!"

"I can assure you I sincerely did not notice you," Geralt said, and this just made Jaskier angrier somehow.

" _Whatever_!" Jaskier cried. "That doesn't even matter, but this? _This_?" He leaned over and gestured exaggeratedly at the stitched wound. "What the _fuck_ , Geralt, you cannot blame this one on me, and frankly, I think you should be _thanking_ me! Your horse, your beloved companion, comes to find me-- _me!_ \--and you--! How-how _dare_ you worry Roach like that, Geralt, she is _very_ upset about this!"

"Is she, now." It was barely even a question.

"I gave her several updates on your condition, and she has _assured_ me that you owe her _at least_ six whole entire apples," Jaskier said. " _Big_ ones!"

"Jaskier, if there is a point to this diatribe, feel free to come to it," Geralt said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"The _point_ is, you told me to fuck off, and I fucked off," Jaskier said, "and you made no attempt to tell me when I was allowed to _un_ -fuck off, or to even _speak_ to you again!"

"I really hadn't planned that far ahead."

"Geralt, you could have _died_!" Jaskier's voice was desperate now, and he suddenly felt completely drained and just grabbed the cast aside chair and pulled it toward him, sinking into it beside the bed, rubbing both hands down his face. "You could have _died_ and I never would have even _known_ if Roach hadn't come to find me, and that _isn't okay_ , Geralt."

"Everyone dies," the witcher said with a shake of his head. "If I die, I die, what does it matter who knows?"

"Because _some people_ would be _distraught_ about it!"

"Then all the more reason not to inform those people!"

"Oh, you-- You... you fucking... _jackass_!" Jaskier slammed his hands down on the edge of the bed and then pointed fiercely at Geralt. "You don't understand _anything_ , do you?"

"Apparently not," Geralt said, rolling his eyes. "I suppose you're going to enlighten me, then?"

"It isn't up to _you_ whether people give a damn or not," Jaskier said shrilly, his whole face crinkled up in anger. "You think I _asked_ to give a damn? About _you_ , of all people? Mister Stoic-Can't-Be-Arsed-to-Say-a-Kind-Word-If-His- _Life_ -Depends-On-It--I could have become friends with someone _way_ more fun than you, but you know what? I didn't. I became friends with _you_ , and I guess that's my own damn fault."

"Glad we understand each other."

There was a beat of silence then, Geralt's words driving a thorn directly into Jaskier's heart. He felt a chill slip down his spine and bury itself in his bones, and he hung his head, sort of hugging his arms against himself.

"I think you've been hurt by so many people that you don't even know what it's like to _not_ be," he said quietly without looking at him. "Why else would you push everyone away like this?" He glanced up, their eyes meeting just briefly, and then he sighed and looked away again. "I know you love that insane mage woman," he said, "I know. And I know she told _you_ to fuck off, so I know you understand how _I_ feel, even if you claim to feel nothing at all."

Geralt made a soft noise of wordless befuddlement, but Jaskier didn't acknowledge it.

"The truth is, I know you don't need me," he said, "but... I need _you_. I need you because because before you, before...this, before whatever we had that I ruined--and I'm _sorry_ I ruined it and ruined your life, okay? I'm _sorry_ , Geralt... but before you, my life meant _nothing_." He looked up at him again, surprised to see something like sincere shock in the witcher's gold gaze. "I had worthless titles and useless academic accreditations and a mostly futile flair for poetry and music that _no one gave a damn about_. I was the shitty pie with no filling at whatever shitty tavern I happened across, with nothing but a long string of broken relationships and unpaid bar tabs in my wake, and nothing fucking _mattered_ until there was you." He paused and then held Geralt's eye. "I need you, I w... _want_... you, in my life, Geralt, whether you like it or not, because without you, I have... nothing worth singing about. And without that... well, there's no pie at all, is there?"

Jaskier shook his head again, pressing the heel of his hand against the ridge of his eyebrow and feeling his eyes sting vexingly. Gods, he couldn't _cry_ in front of Geralt, how fucking pathetic would _that_ be?

There was a long pause in which Jaskier wasn't even sure he _could_ speak, his throat aching and his shoulders heaving and every nameless emotion he knew of just a spinning maelstrom in his heart. He didn't really know how to quantify his feelings for Geralt, but whatever they were, they were stronger than anything else, and even if Geralt felt _nothing_ in return, didn't... didn't he deserve to _know_?

"I do love Yennefer," Geralt said finally, and Jaskier flinched, refusing to lift his head. He heard Geralt shift a bit with a soft grunt of pain, and then there was another beat of silence before he spoke again. "One night, as I lay with her--"

"I _don't_ need to know this part," Jaskier snapped, but Geralt continued anyway.

"--she told me that her whole life, all she had ever wanted was to matter to someone."

Jaskier lifted his head this time, but Geralt's eyes were on some fixed point across the room, gazing far beyond the walls and into something Jaskier dared not fathom.

"I told her that she mattered to _me_ ," he said, "but... it became clear that she didn't feel the same. Because she became convinced that _my_ feelings were disingenuous." His eyes swung to Jaskier then, but his expression was unreadable. "I know what it's like to be _useful_ ," he said. "Plenty of people need me, for my strength, for my skills, for what I can _do_ , but no one has ever said simply that they _need_ me, for myself." He glanced down at his hands, his brow furrowed in thought. "I used to think I preferred it that way," he said, "but... Yennefer's words cut me far deeper than any blade ever had."

"Debatable," Jaskier said before he thought better of it, gesturing at the gash on Geralt's chest, and then cleared his throat and awkwardly scratched at the back of his head.

"Perhaps I was too caught up," he said, his voice low. "I paid too much attention to what remained out of my reach, and refused to look at anything else. Anything else just felt substandard."

Jaskier scoffed, folding his arms a bit tighter over his chest and slouching where he sat.

"Substandard, _bah_. Lucky my _sewing_ skills aren't sub-fucking-standard."

Geralt made a soft, annoyed sound. "I'm saying, I didn't consider that my own words could hurt someone in a way my weapons could not, though I'd suffered the same wound myself," he said. He traced the top of the wound with the pad of one finger, then looked at Jaskier. "You did this yourself?" he asked.

"Well, yes," Jaskier said haltingly. "I'd already spent all your coin on the room and some clothes and some food, so it wasn't like I could afford someone's house call fee."

Geralt was quiet for a moment, and then his mouth pulled ever so slightly to one side in the barest ghost of a smile.

"It may be time for me to try something new, then," Geralt said.

"What in blazes are you talking about? Are you delirious? I thought you were getting _better_ , but if the wound's got infected--"

"You really feel that way about me? Even after what I said to you?" Geralt asked, and Jaskier rolled his eyes.

"Unlike _some_ people, I do often say what I'm thinking, regardless of how much sense it may make."

" _Too_ often."

"I am _trying_ to have a moment, here."

"Then, perhaps I can concede that the pie has a _minimal_ amount of filling," he said then, "though it... certainly isn't the filling I ordered."

"Oh, what's _that_ supposed to mean?" Jaskier demanded. "That doesn't tell me _anything_ about my singing, then! What are you even tal--what filling _is_ it, then?"

"Jaskier..."

"No, really, I want to know!" Jaskier said, unfolding his arms and gesturing wildly. "What sort of pie _am_ I, Geralt of Rivia Lastname Unknown!?"

Jaskier didn't have a chance to be startled before Geralt's hand had shot out and tangled in the front of his shirt. He yanked him close and planted a fierce kiss against his mouth, and the reflexive stiffness in Jaskier's spine bled out immediately. Jaskier's hands moved to bury his fingers in Geralt's hair and for a moment there was nothing else in the world but that instant in that room in that inn.

When the instant was over and Geralt released him, Jaskier sort of wobbled where he was doubled over him, their faces still very close, and he blinked at him owlishly.

"S-so then... that's... you're rescinding the fuck off, then, yes?" he asked. "That's... that felt like an un-fuck-off, to me, I mean... am I allowed to have enjoyed that or should I be indignant on principle or--"

"Jaskier."

"Yes."

Geralt's hand moved to the back of Jaskier's head. "Stop talking."

"Right."

Who cared about pie, anyway?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Geraskier zine, Dandelion Wine! This was an idea I found on [Tumblr](https://kawree.tumblr.com/post/621918207564021760/fuck-i-want-to-write-this-fic-now) and it was just too good to pass up.


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